Cloak and Dagger
by The Clockwork Angel
Summary: Will and Evanlyn never escaped from Hallasholm. Will was never drugged, though his experiences are far worse, and Evanlyn is tormented by her co-workers. But, a surprise reunion is in their wake...and is coming from the two newest yard slaves.


**Cloak and Dagger Chapter 1**

Halt and Horace stood just on the border of the shanty, seaside town of Hallasholm. The streets were empty, save for the occasional bird swooping down to grab a piece of forgotten food. The docks held haphazard ships and boats of various sizes and wear-and-tear. Some were huge and defeated, having encountered the oceans most terrifying of storms, and some were small rowboats, whose only purpose in life was the take the occasional man to go fishing along the shoreline. The sea itself was a sorry gray color, depressed and unmoving. Its color matched the sky, which was gray with oncoming rain. The houses were a rich brown, the only splash of color against the gray pallet of the norm. Each house was the same size and the same shape, reflecting the tradesmen heritage of the people, whose ancestors were nothing more than traders passing through, until deciding to make a living off of the abundant sea creatures, who would soon end up on the dinner plate of a passerby.

Halt and Horace stepped quietly into the temporary home of their captured friends. Halt looked about, left, then right, absorbing the sad environment. It smelled like salt, fish, and another smell all too familiar to Halt's senses on the battlefield: death. Horace, Halt was pleased to note, seemed to pass by the smell of their friends' possible fate. Instead, Horace was staring at the sea, taking in the tiny, sandy waves and deserted beach. His blue eyes widened as the two ventured farther into the town, and started to notice a change in the setting. The houses were closer together, and voices could be heard in the imminent distance.

"Do you think we'll find them here?" Horace asked tentatively. His voice emanated fear, fear for ones lost in this dreary place. Halt looked over at him, and placed a comforting hand on the young man's brawny shoulder. He squeezed gently, hoping to seem solid and secure to his frightened friend. "We'll find them," was his only reply.

The two travelers came upon what looked to be the town square. A small group of people bustled about, ambling from stall to stall, buying and trading goods. Some held baskets of food, others held boxes that could have held jewelry, heirlooms, or weapons. These items seemed to mean nothing to the people now, as they seemed to move with no purpose. The only merriment in the bunch came from the young children, playing tag, hide-and-seek, or just entertaining themselves chasing one of the hungry birds. Their parents and guardians ignored them, instead looking stricken and bored.

Suddenly, a cry could be heard cutting through the heavy silence. Horace looked to see a small girl fall and skin her knee. Acting instinctively, he rushed forward to help her up off of the cold ground. Horace took her tiny hand in his bigger one, and helped her get back on her feet. She looked up at him, tears sliding down her face. Looking at this child brought a string of memories to the forefront of Horace's mind. A small boy, whose brown hair and brown eyes didn't look that different from this little girl's. The little boy had fallen and skinned his knees, and a taller, bigger boy came along and kicked him hard in the side, laughing all the way. The little girl looked into Horace's eyes, and Horace saw Will in them. The Will he'd abused and tormented for over a decade. The Will who'd selflessly sacrificed himself to save an entire kingdom of innocent people, Horace himself included. And the Will who was now a slave, and needed Horace more than ever. The little girl sniffled and dragged her sleeve across her nose and eyes, soaking the thin, colorless fabric. She then broke out into the biggest, happiest smile Horace had seen since Will had gone. Will and this little child were the only two people he'd ever known to smile that happily.

"Thank you," came the small, accented voice. She quickly departed for her friends on the other side of the square.

Halt stepped over, and again touched Horace on the shoulder. "What a dutiful young knight you are, good sir," Halt teased gently. He gave a rare smile in Horace's direction, and then moved ahead of him. Horace saw Halt move to greet a young gentleman, no doubt asking for directions as to where they could meet a man in charge of the slaves. Horace saw the man point west, toward a long street decorated with people. Halt nodded and thanked the man, motioning for Horace to follow him.

As the two strolled down the busy street, Halt noticed that the dress of the general population seemed to get ritzier. The clothing started to have more color, the boots were shinier, and the accessories were more expensive. This was obviously the place of the wealthy merchants and their families, Halt thought. Halt also noticed that the pockets of the men seemed to be fatter, filled with coins and notes. Halt pondered on what the occasion could be.

Horace tapped Halt on the shoulder. Halt looked over at the young man, and Horace pointed at a sign tacked to a pole in the center of a larger square. Halt and Horace made their way over, and Halt squinted to read the small, messy cursive written on the parchment. Though the language was Araluen, the handwriting was downright awful. Halt gave up on his pride, and turned guiltily toward Horace, who was standing not far behind him.

"Horace, can you read this?" Halt asked. Horace looked over and nodded. He stepped toward the pole and took his turn squinting at the written contents of the notice. "I think it's announcing an auction of some sort, though I can't read all of it." Horace looked back at Halt. "Do you think you can read the last line? I still can't tell what they're auctioning off." Horace stepped to the side as Halt nodded and stepped toward the pole once again. Halt, again, squinted. He stroked his bearded chin nonchalantly. "I can make out an 's'," was all he said. "I can't make out anythi-wait! It says 'slaves'." Halt and Horace looked at each other, suddenly concerned.

"W-we should…go," Horace said, beginning to shake, and Halt knew it wasn't from the cold. Halt gestured for Horace to follow as he began to walk toward the crowd. As the two neared the throng of people, they noticed a large platform with a curtained back. The platform was circular and the wood worn. Halt pushed forward through the mob of buyers, and saw scratch marks and blood stains scattered throughout the surface of the wood. Large, circular hooks wrapped around the border of the platform, set at patterned intervals. They were made of a strong iron, and Halt was afraid to consider what they were for…or **who **they were for. Horace walked up and stood next to Halt. His face suddenly became stricken as he saw the blood and scratches on the wood. He just stared, fixated, Halt knew, on visions of what was to come.

Halt, Horace, and the large crowd stood at the lining of the stage for over an hour. Every so often, a ruffle of the curtain would quiet the crowd as they waited to spend their hard-earned money. But each time, it was for not, as the slaves and traders would continue shuffling backstage, and no appearances would be made. And after standing the in the cold for such a long time, tediously waiting for something to happen, the crowd around Halt and Horace started to become impatient, and men started shouting at the empty platform. Halt and Horace couldn't make out any words, due to the strong Skandian accents, but they knew the words weren't good. Time passed this way until a heavy man stepped out from behind the curtain and into the view of the mob. Cheers rang out and filled the air, and notes started flying in the oncoming breeze.

"Thank you all for coming!" the man shouted. He was tall and muscular, like all Skandians. He had greasy, straw-colored hair and blue-green eyes. His face was pockmarked and doughy, dents and malformations dotting the pink flesh. His lips were thin and his nose took up most of his face. A few strands of hair fell down upon a small forehead, just brushing the thick eyebrows. All in all, Halt placed his age around late thirties, early forties. The crowd went wild from his strong words.

"We have some real good boys for you tonight!" Again, the crowd cheered. Horace leaned toward Halt and whispered quietly. "Why just boys? Don't they sell girls, too?" Halt looked at Horace, shook his head, and whispered back. "No. Boys are used to do heavy work. Girls are usually left out of auctions such as these." The two turned back to the platform as the first of the slaves was revealed. He was emaciated and bloody, with pale brown hair and even paler eyes. He looked as if he'd been starved and dumped out in the cold to freeze, and Halt thought that was probably what happened. His wrists were chained together, and shackles adorned his ankles. His skin was filthy, and Halt had difficulty telling what his nationality was.

"Now this 'un is Hibernian. Came to us a couple o' years back. 'E's a hard worker and is awfully quiet. Bidding starts at one hundred pieces." Some men stepped forward to place a bet, but not many. Most just stood, anxious for more slaves to be offered. Their eyes were hungry and greedy. They toyed with their money, looking for something more than this poor boy.

After about ten minutes, a man put down a bet of three hundred pieces, winning the small Hibernian boy. Halt felt a pain in his heart, both just in general for the way slaves were treated, and for the fact that one of his own people was being sold like property. He looked away as the boy was led down the steps to his new owner. Halt silently hoped that his life wouldn't continue to be as bad as it was right now. Halt didn't look up until the announcer stepped back up onto the platform. The Skandian was obviously pleased by the amount he had gotten for the slave, as his eyes were shining and his half-rotten teeth were showing in what could barely be called a smile. Halt noticed that his left pocket was quite a bit larger than the one on the right.

The auction carried on for what seemed like forever to Halt and Horace, though it was probably short to the other men in the crowd. The sky was completely black by the time the announcer introduced the last slave. Halt and Horace watched in horror as the young man was brought out onto the stage and presented.

The boy was beautiful. He looked like a perfect little elf. His hair was a rich, chocolate brown and swirled in delicate curls down to his shoulders. His wavy bangs slightly covered thin, dark eyebrows. His eyes matched his hair, and Halt saw a burning passion within their depths. His nose was delicate and straight, his body small and fragile and his bone structure small. The skin that covered him was pale and smooth, unmarked, as far as Halt could see. And amazingly, clean. The announcer patted his cheek, and the boy opened his mouth, revealing straight, pearl-white teeth. The only markings Halt saw on the child were two scars on his face. One slashed diagonally through his left eyebrow, and another went through his lips, which were a soft pink. The colors were pale, and Halt thought they added to his beauty. The only clothing the boy was wearing was an oversized shirt that slid off his shoulders and reached down to his knees. Long chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and a small group of Skandians attached the ends to the iron hooks Halt had seem wrapping around the edges of the platform. Halt had guessed their usage correctly.

The announcer stepped in front of the elf-child. "This 'un is Araluen. 'E only came here a few months ago. 'E's quiet feisty at times, and is a trained fighter. But that don't mean ye can't spend the night with 'im, if ye know what I mean." The men in the crowd hooted and laughed, obviously thinking rape was a big joke. The boy winced, and Halt knew he had suffered many a night with his captors. The man continued speaking. "'E's a pretty one," he said quietly, stroking the boy's soft hair. "Who wants him!" he shouted to the crowd.

The crowd went wild. Every man there rushed forward, waving notes and throwing coins. All that could be heard was the sound of their screams, begging for this perfect child. "Let's start the bidding at two thousand pieces!" the announcer proclaimed. The crowd quieted. Not one slave had even reached that amount all night. The merchants were broke, thinking throughout the auction that they wouldn't get any better than what they purchased. Halt knew that this was a tease. The announcer knew that by saving the best for last, the boy wouldn't be bought. And with every passing auction where no one bought him, the boy went up in rarity, and ultimately, value.

"O c'mon!" the announcer shouted. "Ye know 'e's worth it! 'E even comes with some bronze! Ye can melt it down and sell it in the shape of a necklace, or a ring!" And with that, the announcer took the boy roughly by the back of the neck, and revealed a bronze oakleaf from under his shirt. Halt's world froze. He looked at his apprentice, being treated like a piece of property. Being shown off to hundreds of perverted men. He couldn't let Will be sold, and he doubted he would be. Though Will was beautiful, he was expensive. And it would take some weeks for some of these merchants to reach enough money to pay for him.

Halt looked over at Horace, who was staring, dumbstruck, at his best friend. He continued to stare as Will's chains were unhooked from the platform, and he was roughly shoved back behind the curtain, no doubt being taken back to wherever he worked. _We have to get Will_, Halt and Horace though simultaneously.


End file.
